


Fragmentation

by adieangel



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4778393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adieangel/pseuds/adieangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanting someone isn't the same as needing them, and loving someone doesn't stop just because you want it to.  Post Ep for 7x17, "Fall From Grace". Mild M Rating. (Originally posted to ffnet in April 2011)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragmentation

**Author's Note:**

> Without giving too much away, this idea was concocted during a late night skype session between me and Penelope and our friend Candice. We wanted to write a possible way in which House and Cuddy could still be together and still be apart, simultaneously. Penelope took the idea and ran in one direction, and I ran in another (I think I'm the first to post, though. Go me! :D). I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Keep tissues handy.

"I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can't love and do nothing."  
— Graham Greene (The End of the Affair)

 

They don't talk about it at work. He annoys her most days, humors her on rare days. The tenderness is gone out of necessity. Once, in the operating theater, her knuckles brushed against his, shocking in its electricity. It sent them both reeling back into their corners like weary opponents in a boxing ring. And so they don't touch. Except for this.

He sleeps in fits and starts. The Vicodin helps a little, but even that is getting old. The dreams don't stop. Fractured images, pieces of puzzles that don't fit together: glimpses of Rachel as a teenager. Memories of holding Cuddy's hand. Nightmares of her on his doorstep saying goodbye or dying in a hospital bed. He wakes up drenched in sweat, Dominka standing in his doorway. She knows she is not welcome in his bedroom, but worries, nonetheless. Once she sees that he is okay, she quietly recedes into the darkness of the apartment.

The bride sits at home alone. She doesn't even ask where her husband has gone. She has no right. She is the mail order bride of a lonely genius. She trades menial tasks for a sham marriage that guarantees her a place in a foreign country. She cooks, she cleans. She does his laundry and rubs his shoulders. But she doesn't touch him. Not really. He doesn't want her to – he's made that very clear. His heart is otherwise engaged.

House could lie to her, tell her he's working late on a case, or going drinking with Wilson, but he doesn't bother. As much as she helps him, she is of no consequence to him. She walks around his apartment in skimpy outfits, performing her contractually obligated duties. He looks at her and sees who he wishes were there instead, walking around his apartment like an adventurer on expedition, running her fingers along the spines of his record collection and memorizing the details of his solitary life.

When he checks into the hotel, he uses his real name. He has no one to hide from, even with a ring on his finger. He slides the key into the lock of room 243, wondering what excuse she'll tell herself this time. Stress relief. Sexual compatibility. No strings. He tells himself it doesn't matter. What matters is that she shows up. Every time. And it's not because she wants to – he can tell by the way she won't meet his eyes when she unlocks the door – it's because she needs to.

The tears have dried. The guilt has riddled her stomach with ulcers. Stress lines her eyes with dark circles. Cuddy wants to stop, but she can't help it. She tells herself that this is the last time as she kisses her daughter goodnight, sliding on her overcoat and slipping Marina an extra fifty dollars. In the car, she promises herself that she will be strong. That she will move past the lump in her throat and hole in her heart and for once, just once, turn the car around. But she doesn't. She doesn't because wanting someone isn't the same as needing them, and because loving someone doesn't stop just because you want it to.

She drives the short distance to the Plainsboro Marriott and picks up the key at the front desk. She unlocks the door to find House sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, his cane propped up between his knees. She doesn't look at his eyes. If she doesn't see his eyes, maybe this time she can walk away.

He watches her remove her coat and hang it up. He smirks at the precision of her movements, the care she takes in such a simple gesture. He sees her trembling hand push a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and absently wonders if maybe, just maybe, this will be the night that she stays.

He stands, abandoning his cane at the foot of the bed, and limps toward her. She stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes, but he can't take his off of her. He memorizes the light from the waning moon against the curve of her jaw. The way she absentmindedly bites her lip when his fingers come up to trace the line of her clavicle. She exhales then, at his touch, leaning into it. Here, in this place, the electricity is welcome. He moves closer, cupping her shoulder and gently guiding her to the wall next to the closet. He leans in, and he can smell the subtle combination of citrus and coconut that tortures him at work all day. His gaze never leaves her face as he moves to kiss her, and it's not until their lips touch that her eyes lock onto his.

He captures her top lip between his, and she is done. Today will not be the day she puts an end to this. She is too weak to resist the perfect closeness of him, the way her body responds to his as he runs his hand down her arm before interlacing his fingers with hers. The kiss deepens, and she can feel all of his sadness, his pain, his desire and yearning and fear, all in the bruising crush of his lips against hers. She pushes the guilt, her old friend, away for now, relishing in the feel of his tongue gilding insistently along hers. She pretends not to notice the hard metal of his wedding band against her palm.

She brings her trembling hand up, unbuttoning his blue shirt with impatience as he unzips her skirt. When his hands clutch the globes of her ass, she gasps against his lips, drawing his breath into her. A familiar and welcome rush of desire shoots through her, and she frantically pushes the shirt off his shoulders. He smirks against her lips as she runs her hands along the firm planes of his chest, moving to remove the shirt completely. She unbuckles his belt, sliding the zipper of his jeans down and pushing them over his hips.

He breaks the kiss, holding her insistently to him.

"Cuddy, slow down," he breathes against her ear. He knows that she wants a hard and fast fuck, to get it over and done with, but he won't. Not tonight. He wants to savor her tonight. He wants to make it hard for her to leave.

She whimpers then, her voice small against his shoulder, "House, I can't. I –"

"Shhh," he whispers, "C'mon." He takes her hand, leading her to the bed. She moves with him, turning to face the bed, her back toward him. He presses his chest against her, and she can feel the stirring of his erection solid against her back. Gently brushing her hair aside, his lips make contact with her neck, and she moans. Her hand comes up to cup his jaw, the stubble tickling her fingers. His hands are at her waist, pushing up the thin material of her blouse as he caresses the soft skin of her stomach. She shimmies out of her unzipped skirt, stepping out of her heels as it falls to the floor. Lifting her shirt over her head, turns in House's arms, pressing her lips to his as he pulls his pants and shoes down and off. Her kisses are deep, probing, desperate.

He removes her bra and it drops unnoticed to the floor as she kisses him, and his hands come up to cup her perfect breasts. He pulls back to gaze, in awe, a quip about having his full attention dies on his tongue. There is no humor in this encounter, only the pressing weight of its temporariness.

He moves to kiss one taut nipple, but Cuddy halts him, "House. I need you."

He can't say no to her.

He guides her to the bed, slowly removing his remaining clothes before gently removing hers. They lay back on the mattress, their eyes locked. When he presses himself into her heat, she sighs, burrowing her nose into his neck and inhaling deeply. She can never admit to herself how much she enjoys this, even as it tortures her. He moves slowly, his hands caressing her skin with a familiar grace. She closes her eyes as he moves above her in the dim light of the moon. Even in the semi-darkness, the blue of his eyes, ever watching, ever pleading, causes an ache deep inside of her.

Her orgasm is gentle, a cascade of waves blooming low in her belly, as her arms move to circle his shoulders. His eyes are closed, finally, at his climax, his face frozen in a grimace of ecstasy. But it's never long before the pain comes back.

Later, she presses her face into his side, her breathing uneven. She is shaking. He rubs his hand down her back, an awkward and hesitant gesture. He hates seeing her cry, but has no idea how to help her.

He hears her mumble something and whispers, "What?"

"This is too hard, House."

He freezes. He can't allow her to stop. As much as it hurts, this time together is the only thing keeping him sane.

"Don't –"

"What are we doing?" she looks up at him, then, her red-rimmed eyes searching his.

He wishes he had an answer for her, but he is no more sure than she is. He shrugs, finally, "I don't know."

"How long do you think we can go on like this, House? You're married, and we're both broken," her lip trembles.

"I don't know," he repeats. He wishes he could tell her things will be different, that he's changed. But they both know that isn't true. He hesitates, then steels himself, "Do you want to stop?"

"Yes," she replies honestly, "but I can't. I love you, House. No matter how much I try not to, no matter how hard I try to move on, I can't. I can't be just your boss, or just your friend. I can't go back to the way we were before. I miss touching you," she caresses the sparse hairs on his chest as he watches her, fear and longing in his eyes, "I feel like this is the only thing real in my life. And it's slowly killing both of us."

"I know," he nods, "so where does that leave us?"

She rests her head on his shoulder, her eyes sad, "I don't know."

He kisses her forehead, then, his lips lingering against the perfect warmth of her skin. "Cuddy?" his voice is small, hopeful.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think, maybe, someday… we could try again? When I'm sober, and divorced," he fingers the ring on his left hand, cursing its existence.

She looks up at him, a small smile on her lips, "I'd like that."

At midnight, House starts awake. The dream wasn't so bad this time. She was still alive in this one. Disoriented, he looks around the hotel room until he sees Cuddy removing her coat from the closet hanger. She puts it on, then moves back toward the bed, sitting on the edge. Her hip rests against his chest as she smoothes a hand across his jaw.

"It's okay, House. I'm here."

He pulls her down to him, capturing her lips in a quick, frantic kiss.

"Stay," he pleads, his voice thick with sleep.

"I can't. I have to get home to Rachel," she replies, her tone soft, full of sorrow.

He nods then, disappointment and understanding apparent on his face. "See you at work?"

"Always."

The tears finally fall, hot and heavy on her cheeks, as she pulls into her driveway. She clutches the steering wheel, the leather groaning beneath her fingers. She's moved past anger, she's realized. Past guilt, and doubt. Now all that's left is regret and sadness. Regret in forcing his hand, breaking his heart, lying to herself that he could change. Sadness because none of that makes a difference. She still expects too much of him, and he is still a selfish bastard.

But so is she, she supposes. She is too selfish to let him go, even when she keeps him at arm's length. She craves his touch like oxygen, even though she knows that's not enough for him. He gave her all he could, and now she gives him all she dares. Maybe one day she will realize that who he is, is enough for her, that the warmth of him is more important than the potential of who he could be. But that day is not today. Today, she accepted the love of a damaged man, and tomorrow she will give it back. And next week, it starts all over again. It is all she can do. For now.

It's a little after one when Dominika hears the key in the lock. The door opens, and though her eyes are closed, she can hear his awkward footsteps as he closes the door and heads back to the bedroom. The familiar fragrance of citrus fills the air, and she sighs. She has no illusions about who he was with, or what she is to him. In her head, she crosses off another day. Six hundred and eleven days until the green card is hers and she is free of him and his infectious sadness. She hopes she can last that long.

End

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to dedicate this short story to my lovely beta, Penelope S. Cartwright, who subbed for RochelleRene in a pinch (while Rochelle was off, I dunno, having a baby or something. Whatever, slacker. ;D). I'd also like to dedicate it to my LA buddies, Marissa, Mariel, Cass, Cheryl, Alex and Megan. Thanks for all your help and input on this one.


End file.
